


Regrets Collect

by whereismygarden



Series: Ceremonials [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-16
Updated: 2013-04-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 16:34:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/763575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten potions to add to the curse: true love, last of all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regrets Collect

**Author's Note:**

> Somewhat inspired by the Florence + the Machine song "Shake It Out."

Ten bottles: nine full, one empty. They were made of quartz, not glass, painstakingly cut and polished: dwarf work, the finest gold could buy. He would need all nine, and more, to tease out the flaw in his curse.

                The first bottle was rage: it was a glittering, smoky black with red lights bursting and sputtering within. This was the first to be added: Regina was choking in rage, and her rage would fuel the curse. A little extra would ease the way for the rest of it. Rumpelstiltskin broke the seal: gold wax crumbled off, onto the workroom floor, and an ashy, bloody smell permeated the air. He splashed the potion over the curse, letting it wash over every word. Rage was simple.

_[The knife felt light and easy in his hands, and he could move for once, with grace, with strength, and the blood on his hands matched the blood thundering behind his eyes]_

                The second bottle was hate, a thick, chalky white, made of lead and salt and the edges of daggers—those had been easy to find, though tricky to collect in a way that let them keep their razor edges, yet fold into a potion. Mixed in the word of a self-righteous man, which he had found far and away the best solvent for hatred. He painted this onto the curse with a brush, in a single thick line down the middle. Hate was sharp: it needed focus, needed care.

_[A few years without Bae had truly made him a monster; he liked the cool, cruel feeling of purpose as he told the pirate that he could feel how it felt to be alone]_

                The third bottle was regret: a chilly blue-green color, made of crow feathers, wormwood, and violets. Spiky silver-grey crystals drifted in the liquid; a shake, and they dissolved. Another brush, this one thinner, and a pattern of interlinked circles, none fully closed—for deeds undone, and promises broken. The aroma of brine filled the room, and Rumpelstiltskin opened a window. He had forgotten how bad some of these smelled.

_[The portal haunted most of his dreams, its green light washing over his eyes, until he decided it would be better not to sleep, that the night was a suitable time for work]_

                The fourth bottle was envy: it spattered onto the paper of the curse in a sludgy, vile orange stream. Distilled from sweat and ruined crops, and balanced with a sliver of silk, envy had been the first thing he had learned to capture. A good portion of his deals—the ones with farmers’ sons and housemaids, mostly—were fueled by envy. A great deal of this potion was infused into those contracts. He was almost used to the rank, rotting smell of sulfur.

_[Always for the small things, for a new cloak for Baelfire, better polish to use on the wheel, a finer wool to make softer thread]_

                The fifth bottle was fear: gods, he knew the feel and taste and scent of fear. A primal mixture, and a potent one, swirled in the cold stone bottle: almost terror. The darkness of a storm-beaten wood, lightning, and the cramped, dirty air of a place besieged. It poured out like smoke, cold and fluid, and he had to waft the paper of the curse through it, make sure the strained paper absorbed enough. The rest he flapped a hand at, and it drifted into the castle, where it would no doubt cling to all the stones—another layer of slightly magical grime.

_[He had been wrong, so wrong, when he thought he wouldn’t be afraid again, after he saved the children, but even magic couldn’t change that part of one’s nature]_

                The sixth bottle was lust, a reddish-gold sparkling liquid, trapped heat. It smelled like strawberry and pine and musk, and the faint golden steam that seeped into the air was tangible on his tongue: roses and blood. Rumpelstiltskin spat onto the gritty stone floor of the workroom: even the vapor had a foul aftertaste, and he was done, forever, with sipping from the cup of desire, no matter how lovely it looked or smelled. The shimmering potion went on with a brush, in a spiral, then he resealed the bottle and returned it to the shelf.

_[A fire, and a tower, and a spinning wheel, with dark-haired, vengeful Cora melting into his arms, soft skinned and already hard-hearted]_

                The seventh bottle was pride. It was a uniform dark blue color, unassuming in its little stone cage. He had brewed roosters’ feathers and goats’ horns and kings’ blood, let them stew for months to get this. It had no scent, and the barest taste, at the time of bottling, had been of dust. But pride was potent, so he only splashed a few drops onto the curse, where they hissed and spread, little dark tendrils curling around each branch and serif on the little slip of parchment.

_[He wore it like his spiky coat, and it made every fallen tree, every dusty bench his throne, with the way he sat and talked and looked, and he used it as the tool to forge his curse]_

                The eighth bottle was contempt. This would need extra care on most spells, but this curse was so powerful, he doubted dunking it in anything other than true love itself could begin to damage it. He shook the unsealed bottle gently over the abused paper and the potion trickled out, fizzing, hissing, bright acid yellow bubbling over the curse. Curled lips and bootheels and chicory: sometimes, the more abstract components made a stronger brew.

_[They never felt his sneers as deeply as he bestowed them, the foolish girls after comfort (love, they said) and the boys after power (bravery), even when they signed away things like innocence and parenthood and health]_

                The ninth bottle was courage: a lively green, it rested clear and placid in the vial. A few scarce drops only: enough for certain acts of bravery that this new land might require. Enough to touch, once or twice, the heroic nature of Snow White and her shepherd prince. Besides, there was no point and no pain to regret and hate and lust and fear if there wasn’t the thought that it could be overcome. Courage was not hope, but they felt the same to the brave and hopeful—the stupid—much of the time.

_[The lanolin-soaked wool lit easily, and the castle burned around him, and his heart was set on one thing, shaped with purpose, his son, his Bae]_

                The tenth bottle was empty. In a few days, he would have what he needed, and he could bottle true love. The final flaw, hidden under every fault and weakness in the hearts of men, where Regina’s careless eye would miss it. A single drop would do it: love only needed the smallest crack to creep through. The curse would be cast, Regina would think she had won, and then he had only to wait.

_[His arms around Bae, no matter the fear in his heart, and his hands catching Belle, no matter the grief]_


End file.
